Francesca & Paddy
The throaty symphony of Maserati tailpipes heralded Paddy’s arrival that early afternoon. He stepped out of his beloved vintage car, the effort to do so not as smooth nor as uncomplicated as it used to be, what with the hitch in his hips and the arthritis in his creaky knees that the quarterly cortisone shots alleviated but only temporarily and to a limited degree. The subject of knee replacements had come up with the orthopedist. And while she had her patient’s attention, hip replacement, too.
“I’m not saying surgical intervention is inevitable, Paddy, but it is foreseeable,” she said.
“Foreseeable maybe by you, deary,” he said.
The patient himself was not interested, no matter what the MRIs showed. He didn’t need joint replacement, he needed doc replacement. In the meantime, he resolved to live with the discomfort, or outlive it. Ah, the golden years. The stage of life that was all about, you might say, general contracting. If it wasn’t about his body’s electrical or mechanical repairs, it was about the damn plumbing. Don’t get him started about stumbling out of bed four or five times a night. As he once confided to Jonesy in an unguarded moment, “Some days my whole mortal existence consists of one constant effort to piss, interrupted periodically by dinner or buying baubles for Caitlin—not to complain,” he complained.
Jonesy said, with emphasis, “I can relate, and no man is a hero to his valet, the one exception being you, sir.”
“You’re very adorable, aren’t you?”
“The things people say about me, I would blush.”
Such considerations notwithstanding, brightly smiling Paddy hobbled over to arms-akimbo Francesca, waiting smiling for him near the one tiny, ramshackle structure left standing on his property, the land that could be the site of the new high school, if negotiations bore fruit. “Am I late, Frankie darling?” he asked, though he knew he wasn’t.
“No no no, right on the button, Paddy.”
She was the sort of businesswoman who made it a priority to evince respect for peers by arriving early for an appointment, something that would impress a man like Paddy Fitzgerald, and it did. On the other hand, Italians—like her own father—seemed willfully incapable of being on time. Just because it was a cliché didn’t mean it wasn’t true. To Big Mimmo, people waited if you were important enough, thereby showing you respect. Again, she subscribed to the opposite. On one level, today she was conspicuously signaling deference for her negotiating partner (and father-in-law); on another level, it was an easy method of gaining a slightly subtle upper hand.
Nonetheless, Paddy was hardly a candidate to be played. Same time, he realized he was spinning in the eddy of uncharted waters: about to conduct a business negotiation with his dearest daughter-in-law, who was here representing the diocese and Bishop Mackey—and who herself had arrived early, too. If this connection, this family history, granted him any leverage, it was going to be tough to revel in it—though the prospect was enticing enough to possibly exploit. Of course, he imagined, she might feel the counter position, that it was she who had the unarticulated, unacknowledged leverage over him. Paddy had no fear of conflicts; as he informed his son Philip, no potential conflict? Don’t bother talking. Family and business: most people say mix them at your own peril. Maybe they were right, too. Yet some of these obvious people don’t know enough to bet on the winning horse if they got past-posted race results inside information.
Paddy genuinely liked the girl. Well, he should correct himself: the woman, a woman who was probably as wealthy as he was, if not wealthier. She had been and continued to be in his own heart his daughter-in-law, the love of his eldest son’s brutally foreshortened life. They hugged: a frank, warm embrace.
She gestured with feeling toward the Maserati, the White Lady. “Special occasion, Paddy?” She recalled that he drove the car for such times deemed special.
“Could be, Frankie, could be, you’ll have to tell me.” He couldn’t resist turning tables. And he also couldn’t resist acknowledging to himself that he might have outlived the purpose of having the Maz. This was a young man’s car, not the car of the old man he had become.
“Haven’t seen your gorgeous wheels for a long time.”
He could cite exactly how long it had been, if pressed, to the day. “No point not driving it, not getting any younger. I was hoping the bishop would be joining us, heard he’s feeling his oats again.”
“Word is, he’s feeling a little better, day by day, thanks. I’ll pass along your regards, he asked me to represent.”
This negotiation had been going on for far too long, everyone could agree. They weren’t building the Panama Canal, said Paddy, and not for the first time, so he went for it. “You have authority, do you?”
“We’re talking, you and I, see if we can move the ball down the field.”
“This is a simple real estate deal, and I was hoping Mackey would finally get serious.”
“I don’t know about simple. But the diocese is serious, that’s why I’m here, and I wouldn’t be, and I wouldn’t waste your time or mine, if the diocese wasn’t.”
“Life being brief as it is, how about we do a deal, Frankie?” He’d heard the diocese counters in the past, which he dismissed as semi-ridiculous if not in bad faith, so he wasn’t in the mood to play softball. They had exhausted his patience. When he was a younger man, he would have walked away already, not before telling them where to go with the horse they rode in on. It was different now. For one thing, Mackey had roped in Francesca, so he was shrewder than Paddy counted on. In any case, he said to her, and pleasantly enough, “What the fuck.” Even if it was Francesca he was dealing with, he found it proved useful to throw out a fuck or a shit as soon as possible in the lead-up conversation, to make the proceedings sound gritty, real, because that’s what a good deal is, gritty and real. And then surprisingly, preemptively, and without setup, he tossed out a number, a big round number, but materially smaller than his previous big round number. Based on his past, he would never have done that; you let the other party show their hand first.
“You have done the due diligence, so you know, you of all people, Frankie, that’s a very good price I just quoted you.”
She shouldn’t have been totally surprised that Paddy jump-started the conversation, and she wasn’t, so she was careful, mindful of not revealing too hastily her cards.
“This whole thing has been going on forever, Frankie, time for Mackey to shit or get off the pot, somebody might crassly say.” So he had gotten the fuck and the shit out of the way now.
“Let’s say,” she said, “for the sake of discussion, we can ultimately work with something in the neighborhood of that number. For the proverbial sake of discussion.”
He was in no mood to slow-play anymore. Her presence had both complicated and simplified matters, which he appreciated that the bishop slickly and accurately presumed would do the trick.
“Paddy, I have a feeling I know what you need.”
He tilted his head, sensing she was about to make a bold move.
“Merende?” she said. By which she meant snacks. She said it used to be thought by linguists that Eskimos have lots of variations of words referring to snow, which sounded fascinating enough, but it turned out not to be so. But Italians do in fact have several alternative terms, subtly differentiable, for snacks—and sleeping, for that matter. She digressed, which was the point. Digression is also an indispensable tool of the artful negotiator.
“Sounds serious.”
“It’s very serious. It’s food.”
“You Italians, does it always come back to eating?”
“Oh, for us it’s often about money as well, and occasionally God.”
“All the same, then.”
—
Arriving in advance of their meeting, she arranged a little table and a couple of lawn chairs on the other side of the building in the shade afforded by two sturdy, spreading Japanese maple trees, and that’s where she guided him. She had laid out a beautiful white linen tablecloth, upon which were set out cheeses, sardines, salami, flatbread with dark pink, thinly sliced prosciutto, beautiful green olives and capers, and two gorgeous sliced-up peaches that glowed. It was pure Francesca: do something unexpected and surprising, disarm somebody participating in a difficult set of circumstances, create an atmosphere of openness and generosity, all via the miraculous ministrations of delicious food.
“We’re having a picnic, Frankie dear?”
“On such a beautiful site, where we’re going to build a beautiful new school someday, doesn’t that sound like a nice idea?”
Celebrating seemed the essence of premature to him, but what could be the harm? “And look at this.” He picked up the impressively labeled bottle she had opened next to the two country goblets.
“Anthony’s favorite Brunello, 1997, a great vintage in Tuscany. Seemed like the perfect opportunity to open it—I mean, what are we all waiting for?” Thereby planting a seed. And thereby allowing Paddy to realize she was attempting to plant a seed.
“I was surprised when my boy took an interest in wine, figured him to stay a beer and Jameson guy. Though nothing wrong with the red Italian wine.”
She was thinking how much Anthony had changed over the course of their marriage. “My dad and Anthony constantly talked wine, went shopping for the best vintages and visited wineries when we traveled to Napa and Italia. French and California are great, but—surprise—my dad turned up his Italian naso. He enjoyed educating Anthony, because, as he said, my husband knew everything else in the world worth knowing so it was about time he learned Italian wine: Sangiovese, Barolo, Barbaresco, Valpolicella. Not to mention, according to my dad, he was smart enough to marry, well, me. And Anthony had a good palate, he said, and Mimmo didn’t blow smoke, unless it was true, or unless he was getting good odds.”
“What I know about wine wouldn’t pack a leprechaun’s pouch, so Big Mimmo can one day teach me, too.”
“You kidding? He would love that.”
They sat down and Francesca poured the ruby red wine. It should have been decanted, as it would have been had it been served in her and Anthony’s favorite Florence restaurant, the hilariously overpriced but fabulous Enoteca Pinchiorri. Yet with enough air in the swirling goblet, the wine would only get better and better the deeper they went into the bottle, which, with any luck, they would achieve forthwith.
“Try the focaccia, that will make the wine pop.”
And he did and it was true. To his untutored palate it was gorgeous. He was appreciating the velvety drink as he had never appreciated wine before. Older he got, no use putting off learning new tricks. He had a lot to learn about other things, too, if Caitlin proved to be a keeper—and the image of her face surfaced in his mind.
After a few minutes of silent wine-drenched pleasure, they both simul-taneously cast their eyes across the beautiful expanse of land. Paddy had initiated the preliminary surveying, but even if he hadn’t, he was aware of the boundless promise of this property—and so was she. Here, he was thinking, right here where they were sitting, with the rolling hills in the distance, this would be the perfect spot for the main school building. He dared not venture such a notion out loud, certainly not at this stage of the conversation, though Frankie would have been moved to hear exactly what he was imagining—which was one reason he would not mention that. Problem was, united in love for Anthony and his memory as they may have been, they were also two people with individual drivers in a commercial negotiation. In a typical negotiation there was a winner and there was a loser. In a good negotiation, there were two winners—both parties got and gave value they could live with. Individual interests push them into each other’s arms.
He was curious about something else. “You and Philip friends again?”
“Dear Philip. We were never not friends. But we’re spending some time together again these days. He tells me he’s happy big things are going on for you.”
“He’s happy, is he? That would be news, him being happy. And Philip, my Philip, he’s curious about what he thinks is my romantic life. What about you, Frankie, seeing anybody?”
“Yes, I am, but I don’t know. I don’t know for sure. Sometimes it feels right, sometimes it feels beside the point.”
“You know in your heart if the man’s a keeper or not.”
“Anyway, Philip says your amore is quite beautiful.”
“An Irish lassie amore. Might be too young for me, or I might be too old for her.”
“Where’d you two meet?”
“Oh, I don’t know, the usual, let’s say the opera house?”
She laughed. And he did, too. He wasn’t going to give up that information, and that was fine, it was unimportant. “Philip says Caitlin seems to have a very good heart, and you two might be serious.”
“One glass of fine wine into our conversation, I can say yes, that’s all true about her, she’s a good girl. But serious? We’ll see, we’ll see. I did ask her to move into Haymarket with me. God, doesn’t that sound like college kid stuff? Living together? One day she’ll make an honest man out of me.”
“That’s wonderful, Paddy. I’m thrilled to hear, and I can’t wait to meet her. Cent’anni,” she announced with a flourish. “A hundred years. That’s a good-luck toast.” She raised her goblet of Brunello.
“Oh, good, I guess, because I can always use some good luck. But I won’t be around if we wait a century to do a deal.”
Frankie and Paddy clinked glasses, and they proceeded to get into it as never before.
—
“We’re not having a fire sale, sweetheart, that figure’s a bargain, and you know it.”
“I can see why you think so.”
“That’s the spirit, Frankie.”
“What kind of terms can you give us?”
“Bank money’s dirt cheap these days, they’re practically giving it away, why you want me to finance the deal?”
“Not saying we do. Just talking, considering all the options.”
“I can work with you on the terms, the timing, all depending.”
“On what?”
A fair contest, then: they both had done lots of complex negotiations. She found it interesting that he was moving forthrightly into the higher weeds. When it came to deal-making, every bit as important as the specifics, you needed to figure out what the other party wanted. Amateurs think it’s about cash, but that proves why they are amateurs. Cash pushes deals only to a point, and then the real interests kick in. It was usually a version of respect, or fear, or some preciously held preconception, usually about family or financial security or ego. Beyond all that you need to ask: Why were the parties engaged now? Figure out the timing, assess the urgency, everything else should fall into place.
“Depending, I don’t know, like let’s say naming rights, here and there,” he said.
“That’s certainly on the table for us.”
“Construction contract…”
She poured them both more wine. She wasn’t prepared to give away the store yet. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but we would of course entertain a sound, competitive bid from you—or any first-rate GC. A construction deal with the seller might strike people as monkey business, but we could see our way around working with that.” Actually, she didn’t have a problem at all with that, and she could artfully structure the deal so as to make sure the diocese was meeting the burden of honoring its fiduciary duties.
Piece of cake, he was thinking, he didn’t expect she would give in so readily, or at least not resist forcefully. “And let’s not forget the dumb loyalty oath. We gotta deep-six that bullshit right now.”
That was a heave from out of right field. She didn’t see that one coming, but she should have. She rallied. “Don’t give me up to Mackey, but you and Philip and I all agree on that one. That was a crackbrain idea the bishop had.” She was holding back something. What she didn’t add was that the bishop, though he hadn’t announced this, had been thinking about flipping on the issue, thanks to, she had every reason to believe, Philip’s good influence behind the scenes. She would keep that concession in her pocket for the time being, waiting until the crucial moment when she could gain maximum leverage.
“If that should happen, then we’re halfway home to popping the champagne, Frankie—or another bottle of what is this again? Brunello, right?”
“And if you throw in the Maz…”
“I’ll never give up that buggy. So dream on. When Irish eyes are smiling...” But then his eyes darkened, and his head felt weighted down on his neck, and he was not comprehending why—until, that is, he caught himself remembering there was a time long ago when he was prepared to give that car to her and Anthony on some big occasion in their lives, like a major anniversary, or the birth of their child. Infinite and unending seemed the disappointments life had handed him—and, he would have to admit, life had handed her, too.
She picked up on his shaken state of mind but couldn’t intuit the precise emotion roiling the air. “Can’t fault a girl for asking. It’s a beauty, that car of yours.”
He steered himself back into control. “And another thing. If Matty kept his job at the school, I could be even more flexible.”
“I don’t think we are going to go down that road, micromanaging staffing decisions.”
“As my wife of sainted memory would say, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Sure you can, and you want to.”
At this juncture of a fast-moving conversation, she should signal that she—meaning the bishop and the school—could maybe work with that. She wouldn’t tip her hand; she might have her work cut out with the bishop. “Everybody knows Matty’s a great teacher, and I’m sure the bishop naturally wants the best for the kids.” Taking the middle course seemed prudent here, and saving that concession for when they verged on cinching the agreement.
“Pretty smart, old Mackey, dinged up as he is, getting my cherished daughter-in-law involved.” Because Paddy was indeed impressed. But then, he had to move in for the deal. You can play hardball or you can flatter your way into wresting an agreement. Paddy preferred to do both, simultaneously.
Time for the head fake. “I don’t know about that, but I did tell His Excellence not to get his hopes up too high for my meeting with you today,” she said. “For the Fitzgeralds, money is money. And also is money.”
“You don’t believe that for a second, Frankie. And I wouldn’t be talking in the first place if it were true.”
“Good talk, Paddy. I’ll get back to you right away, once I draft the letter of intent.”
“Finally! And I know you will. Of course, your LOI will be very clean. And so we’re clear, I’ve been patient enough and my generosity wears off in, let’s say, forty-eight hours.” He had softened her up with the reduced price, but he needed to drive home that he was in charge. “Nothing personal, my dear, but we need to get to a binding agreement in the next couple of days or this deal is dead, and not ever rising from the dead like Lazarus.”
“What did you say? Nothing personal? You know what Anthony would say. Everything’s personal.”
Paddy smiled his saddest smile. “I can hear my boy saying that.”
The two of them shared the silence, and they reflected on the loss, and the remembered joy, they also shared.
“That’s my beloved father-in-law.”
“You know you’ll always be a Fitzgerald. You’re a lifer, hell or high water.”
She never required being reminded. She knew all about hell and all about high water. Beyond that incontrovertible truth, they both knew they had cinched the deal.